


there is nowhere I would rather be

by elainebarrish



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: CARRIE C--N MADE ME DO IT, F/F, idk asterisks aren't allowed in tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 13:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: Boney is all sharp lines and smug smiles you’re just Go, and that’s all you can think when you look at her sometimes. she arrested you but somehow that doesn’t matter when she smiles like that and puts her hands on her hips, somehow none of it matters when you see her take that first drag from her much needed cigarette, smoke coiling around her head like she’s a part of it.





	there is nowhere I would rather be

**Author's Note:**

> anyway yall yeah i haven't written anything in like two years, idk what im doing, idek how i write now like is it the same fuck knows but here is uhhhhhh ,,,, whatever this is ? basically im watching the leftovers and carrie coon is hot

It’s time for something different. Something other than pawing through the tape of Amy’s one and only interview, and enormous coffees and boring cases. Everything is boring after Amy and Nick but she knows that she would absolutely be a liar if she said that’s what makes her pause on one specific contact in her phone sometimes. Margo Dunne. Small and angry and somehow compact, like the rage had drawn her that tight, like her cynicism and pain had left her ready to snap. It’s a small town, so Boney knows things about her, had seen her in the supermarket long before Amy and Nick had even come to exist.

She’s always made the local watering holes her business, has always known that it helps to be in the know. So the purchase of The Bar had been followed by a few visits, ones that Boney is sure Margo doesn’t remember. She even drank in there a few times, when they were newer and Nick had been more involved. She’s never known whether she was glad or not that he always seemed to be the one that served her.

Margo did remember, had always remembered, but she didn’t think Boney had, didn’t think that Boney would have remembered her because they’d never talked. She’d just remembered the way her eyes had glinted in the dim light, had remembered toned arms and sharp teeth. She had thought then that maybe one day Boney would be a maybe, somewhere down the line, a one night stand or something slightly less official than that. Instead all she gets later is an arrest and some sort of murder club. Which, she guesses, is fine. She didn’t expect anything from her, didn’t think that sharp smile would ever permit her to present the skin of her neck in offering.

Margo is some form of brittle, always. She is brittle smiles and brittle sarcasm but Boney knows that the woman herself is not. She is angry and maybe she’s sad underneath that and maybe there’s much more to her than she’ll ever get to see. She knows that’s a product of the circumstances but she is quietly disappointed nonetheless, and she can’t not think about smooth skin wrapped tight around shoulder blades, muscles moving as she reaches for the spirits. She thinks about tank tops and tight jeans and the very way that Margo is, how she slouches across the bar and the difference in the way that she smiles when she thinks she’s in with a chance. Boney has heard things, since the case, since Nick and Margo became short lived local celebrities, things about women kissed in bars and taken into Margo’s house and she thinks about being one of those women, thinks about her being shorter and how she can be just as stubborn and just as smug as she is.

  
  


She’s in Starbucks. It’s fucking 8am and she’s in Starbucks because she has an appointment with their accountant or some bullshit like that. And there she is, Rhonda fucking Boney, who she thought frequented Dunkin’ Donuts like every other cop, but there she is, two people ahead of you in the line, and you didn’t even bother with your nice jeans this morning, because your accountant knows who you are. She has the audacity to have her blazer slung over her shoulder, dangling from her forefinger, work issued Blackberry in her other hand, gun visibly attached to her belt. It’s too early to see her, to see her and her ponytail and her straight back.

She pays and waits and doesn’t see Margo until she’s turning for the door, biggest coffee she could get in hand. Boney doesn’t say anything, just nods at Go and turns to leave, and Margo can’t think of anything to do other than smile in return. So she goes to her fucking meeting and doesn’t think about Boney with her hair down or how she seems to be the only other person who has any sort of sane reaction to Amy fucking Elliott.

  
  


Sometimes she just turns around and Margo is there. She’s just crossing the road and Margo’s waiting at the other side of the crossing and she  _ wants _ something from her, something that she’s unable to quantify. She doesn’t remember this, doesn’t remember the circling or the  _ wanting _ , from the beginnings she’d had with her exes, but maybe she’s just different now. She’s not hopeful enough to think that Margo might be different, not naive enough to think that this will magically work out, that this is completely different to every other relationship she’s ever been in. But none of these things are things that she actually  _ thinks _ , not actively, she’s just got a lot percolating back there. She’s not twelve years old and writing Rhonda Dunne on her paperwork, mostly because she knows that Gil would think it was the other Dunne. So she nods and smiles a little, in a way that she hopes infuriates Margo at least a tiny bit, and she continues.

  
  


It takes them a while to progress to the actual exchanging of words, but Margo gets a “hi” out of Boney eventually, after more silent nods and small smiles. She has to speak first, she admits, a brisk “Detective” as she passes, but she gets a nod, a low “Margo” and she thinks it’s some kind of achievement. Since Nick had the baby their team “Amy is a fucking psychopath” meetings had mostly ended, their team disbanded through Nick’s return to being a man that Amy had by the balls. Margo pretends like it isn’t the little smile that Boney greets her with every time that pushes her to just fucking say something.

  
  


“Enjoying the weather?” she says, ironic smile on and one of her hands stuffed deep in her jeans pocket, the other holding her lone purchase, in the queue at the fucking pharmacy of all places (Go’s buying nicotene gum that won’t work and she’ll probably forget about).

Boney rolls her eyes as she turns to face her. “Margo. Fancy seeing you here,” she looks down and raises an eyebrow. “I thought you’d already quit.” It’s not a question, not even slightly.

“You’re very astute Detective, I had, but unfortunately then Amy Elliott happened to me.” 

“She’s a very convenient excuse, you’re right,” Boney says, and she’s fucking smirking, because of course she is, because that’s just what she’s fucking like.

“So she wouldn’t drive you to smoke?”

“Oh she did, but I never quit.” Boney shrugs, smug, and she turns to the cashier, and all Margo gets after that is a quiet bye as Boney brushes past her, and out of the building.

  
  


“So does everyone always call you ''Detective”?” She asks, in the wine aisle in Walmart, and Boney doesn’t look surprised to see her.

“Only those that know me the best,” she says, and Margo hates how much she plays up to this weird mystery Boney seems to create around herself when she talks to her.

“Does that mean your last girlfriend called you detective?”

“My last girlfriend didn’t really know me all that well,” she replies, easily, simply, and when she looks up at Margo there’s something like challenge in her eyes.

It’s a challenge Margo doesn’t know how to respond to, even as she replies with some kind of smile, even as she returns with some kind of smug.

“Does that mean she didn’t meet you through work?”

“They usually don’t.” 

Margo hates how unaffected she is, how unflappable she always seems to be. “Does that mean sometimes they do?”

Boney tilts her head. “Those are usually the ones I really like.”

Her returning smile is maybe wider than she wanted, and she knows that Boney sees it, notes it, because that’s just what she’s like. “You ever arrested any of them?”

“Only those that were wrongfully convincted.”

Margo grabs a bottle of wine off of the shelf, doesn’t look at what it is even though she knows that Boney will have, and she allows a small smile. “I’ll see you later Detective.”

“I’m sure you will.” Boney returns, and of course she looks pleased with herself, still all cop shirt and ponytail even though Margo knows she doesn’t get paid to go wine shopping.

  
  


The next time, Margo starts simple. “Are you following me, Detective?”

“Well now that wouldn’t be very good for my reputation, would it?”

“Answering a question with a question… Smart.”

Boney looks up at the display board like she doesn’t have her coffee order memorised and smiles. “I have been known to be.”

“Do you have anyone who can verify that for me?” she smiles as she says it, pretend gruff, and Boney actually laughs.

“I think you’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”

“And would you do that in my situation?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I am what is seen as a reputable citizen.”

“I guess they don’t know about the girlfriends.”

“Would I not still be seen as an upstanding member of society?”

“That one definitely depends on who you ask.”

They take turns ordering and then Boney actually faces Margo, smiling just slightly, not enough to soften all of her sharp lines. “I still have your number, you know.” It’s not really a question, just a statement, and Margo smiles.

“Yeah?” Her voice is softer than she meant for it to be and she clears her throat, nervous. “You’ve never used it. You know where I live too.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of intrusive, to use information you gained on the job in your personal life.” Her voice is soft too, as quiet as Margo’s had been.

“Well I’m giving you permission.” She’s definite, quiet and clear, and Boney smiles.

“Sure you don’t feel stalked? I can help you make a statement.”

“It’s a considerate offer, but maybe just text me instead? I might even pick up if you decide on a phone call.” Margo picks up her coffee and leaves, smiling, and hopes, hopes, hopes she does text her or phone her or show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night.

  
  


They see each other by accident, in the same Starbucks, while Boney is clearly on duty, gun and badge clipped to her belt, Blackberry in hand.

“I thought maybe you’d lost your phone, since you hadn’t texted.”

Boney looks up, surprised, and she can’t help the smile, the way her shoulders relax but her tummy starts fluttering at the sight of Go, in skinny jeans and a tank like always. “Did you get new glasses?”

Margo blinks, surprised, and adjusts them self-consciously. “Uh, yeah, I did.”

“They’re cute,” she says, and looks back down at her phone. “And also I’ve been busy, you know how it is.” She sighs and finally slides her phone into her pocket, noting the blush on Margo’s cheeks with a small smile. “I wanted to call.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it,” Margo replies, hoping she’s not blushing even more.

“I mean eventually you’ll get used to it.” Boney shrugs. “You either get used to the long hours or you don’t.”

“What happens if I wanna see you more than that?” Go asks, smiling, and she’s started to feel confident with Boney in a way that surprises her even more than feeling like she’d lost her footing had done.

“You might just have to get yourself arrested, I suppose,” Boney suggests, shamming seriousness, and Go laughs.

“Is that the only way a girl can get your attention?”

“As far as I can tell it’s the most efficient one.” They’re both smiling and then Boney’s phone starts to ring just as it’s her turn to order and Go steps in without thinking, ordering for them both because she knows Boney loves pumpkin spice and it’s worth it for the murmured thanks before she turns away, hand at her hip, phone jammed to her ear, stance tense. 

She gets the drink made out to “Detective” and she catches the smile on Rhonda’s face when she sees it, and Margo can’t resist blowing her a kiss as they split in the car park to go back to their own cars, and she sees the sprinkling of pink on her cheekbones, sees the spots of colour, and wonders when she started being so brave.

  
  


“I hope you meant it.” Boney says when she picks up the phone, and Margo smiles at the sound of her voice. “That I could call.”

“Of course I did,” Margo replies, fiddling with her charger cable, pulling at the tape wrapped around it.

“Are you busy?” Boney asks, and she sounds some kind of uncertain, tentative, that Margo has never heard from her before.

“I’m never too busy for you,” she says, and then cringes at the cliche of it, at what an uncool thing it is to say.

“You know I can’t always guarantee the same, right?” Boney almost murmurs, and Margo wishes she could see her right now, wishes she could see the warmth in her eyes contrasting with the sharp planes of her face.

“I know,” she pauses. “You wanna come over?” she offers and then she panics, colour rising, as she thinks about how that could be taken.

“You do know how that question can be misconstrued? Considering how late it is.” Her voice is warm and Margo wants to bury herself in it, ignoring the way her face burns further.

“Do you realise how you calling so late could be misconstrued?” She’s some form of breathless, some kind of excited but nervous.

“Maybe I was just feeling a little bit brave this evening.”

“Hmm, I doubt you’re ever not brave.”

“If I was really brave I would have just showed up at your door a month ago. Maybe I wanted my intentions to be read as some kind of nefarious.”

“Well why don’t you? Show up at mine?” She doesn’t know whether she’s holding her breath or if she just gave up on breathing entirely, and she feels an eternity pass as she worries about heavy breathing down the phone.

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” Boney says, and it feels sudden, and she clicks off as Margo’s struggling up an okay to breath into existence. She stares at it for a moment, and then she looks around her house and springs into action, swearing quietly.

Boney shows up in jeans that could almost be described as rumpled and a hoodie, six pack dangling from one hand and a look on her face that isn’t one that Go thinks she’s ever seen.

“Hi,” she says, and her face is all shadows and sharpness and Go wants to drag her inside, into the light of the kitchen, so she can see the softness around her eyes that she hopes is there.

“Hi,” she replies, and they just stand there for a moment. “Come in,” she remembers how to say it and moves out of the way, so they can stand in the shadows of the hallway, so Go can take a deep breath and lead her into the living room where she can see, where Rhonda toes off her shoes automatically in the doorway, where she sits next to her, and Margo’s already wishing she was sitting closer, practically wishing that she could crawl into her lap, craving her warmth and her closeness in a way she hasn’t done with anyone in a long time. Rhonda silently snaps off a can and hands it to her, and she cracks it open, taking a long swig, wondering whether Boney is usually a beer kind of person.

“I wasn’t expecting you to take me up on my offer,” she says, tapping her can with the rings on her right hand, not looking at Boney, not sure she’s able to process the idea that she is in her house, that they’re alone, that this is private and they can do whatever they want. Everything is different in the quiet stillness of her front room that she just panic tidied, and she hopes that Boney doesn’t discover the tshirt shoved behind the sofa cushions.

“Do you want me to go?” she asks, smiling, and the laugh Go offers in return is breathless and surprised.

“Of course not,” she says, honestly, because she thinks it might be time for that, for full honesty. “If the only time you have for me is at 10pm on a Sunday I’ll take it.”

“It’s been a stressful couple of weeks,” she sighs, and takes a long pull from her can.

“You wanna talk about it?” Go asks, carefully, and Rhonda shakes her head.

“No work, no Amy, let’s pretend we met somewhere else.”

“Does that mean you actually want me to use your name?”

“You seem to like calling me Detective,” Boney says, smiling.

“I mean I do love to corrupt authority.”

“Who says you corrupted me?”

“It just seems like you were all uptight and boring before me,” she teases, and Boney rolls her eyes.

“Oh yes, because you’re such an anarchist, what with being a business owner and all.”

Margo laughs, louder than she was expecting, and she sees the way that Boney’s eyes soften, sees the way the corners of her eyes crinkle, and she thinks that maybe she could fall in love with being looked at like that by her.

“I truly have betrayed everything I’ve ever believed in, I’ve got a cop on my sofa, this is terrible.”

“Maybe you’re just corrupting the Police force from the inside,” Boney suggests, and Margo laughs, nodding.

“It’s definitely that. You wanna smoke?” she offers, holding up a pack of Marlboro’s that’s very battered, far too battered considering that she only bought them this morning. Rhonda nods and Margo gets the ashtray from the kitchen side, where she left it after she’d hurriedly emptied it ten minutes ago. She lights up when Rhonda passes everything back, and she realises she has no idea what to do here, has no idea how to get what she wants. “Why did you call me?”

“Because I wanted to see you, but most people don’t like impromptu visits from detectives.”

Margo smiles, concentrating on flicking ash into the tray she stole from a bar when she was nineteen, when she shouldn’t have even been let inside one. “You can probably consider me an exception to that rule,” she says, squinting through the smoke, suddenly glad her smoke alarm got taken down to replace the battery about three years ago and was never returned.

“You sure? I did have you arrested once.”

“Yeah and I’m still offended that you didn’t arrest me personally.”

“I thought it might be a conflict of interest,” she pauses, takes a drag. “I didn’t want you to later say that it was just an excuse for me to get my hands on you.”

Margo laughs but it’s almost more of a cough, like it was startled out of her. “I wouldn’t have done that unless you’d touched me inappropriately.” 

“I don’t know if I’d have been able to help myself once I got you in handcuffs,” she says, and it’s like she’s sharper somehow, the way she looks at her hot and somehow dark.

“You cops and being into tying people up,” Margo says, making a joke because she can’t think of anything else to say, because there’s no response she can come up with in answer to that.

“You got firsthand experience?” Boney asks, and she thinks that something in her stomach drops at the thought, even as she smiles, smug as ever, at Margo’s attempts to look unflustered.

“Not yet,” she says, so fast Rhonda almost misses it, her eyebrows raising.

“And to think I left my handcuffs at home.”

“You’ll know better for next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah. If you want,” Margo wonders if she’ll ever get her breath back as she leans forward to crush her cigarette butt out, her hands shaking, feeling Rhonda’s eyes tracking her.

“I do. Want.” She says, seriously, as she copies Margo’s movements, taking a sip of her beer and wishing she had a mint to wash the taste away, even though she knows Margo will taste the same.

“Good,” Margo says, simply, finality in her tone. “Wanna watch something?” she offers, and she thinks that Boney is going to say no, looking at her in the distant yellow light of the kitchen fluorescents, and she’s not disappointed.

“I came here because I wanted to see you, not whatever’s on your TV.” 

Margo takes a breath, takes a drink, takes a quick pause to collect herself, to process. “Wanna go upstairs?” she offers, and she thinks maybe this is the bravest she’s ever been, looking into dark eyes on her ratty sofa.

“Now you’re getting the right idea,” she replies, and something warm crawls, tingles, up Margo’s spine. She leads the way up the stairs, feeling eyes on her as Boney follows her.


End file.
